Yashar Gulshen - May 26, 2013
 |
I am a famous person. Recently, I’ve actually become even more famous. (1) I’m referring to the incident when I had to kick someone who spoke inappropriate words in our formal language. It caused quite a stir. I had to downplay it by replacing the kick with something else, but the damage was done, and the story of the kick made my fame global.
I used to be a Persian literature teacher. You know, the language that has proper literature and is the sweet language of our people. Many non-Persian languages don’t even have proper literature. Take the language of those who invaded us eight hundred years ago, for example. The story of the kick is related to one of these invaders. To be honest, the way they spoke didn’t even resemble the language of humans, let alone having literature. If I call their language "veer-veer," that’s already very generous of me.
Our language, even eight hundred years ago when they attacked Iran, was Persian—just like the one I speak today. Over time, it mixed with Arabic, but that’s a whole other story. It has nothing to do with eight hundred years ago. From the very beginning of history, our language was Persian. Even during the time of King Cyrus, it was Persian. When I say "we," I mean Iran. Don’t think I’m referring just to me and my friends, or cities like Tehran, Isfahan, Shiraz, and Sangser. No! I mean all of Iran. And Iran, you can see on Google Maps, is shaped like a cat, with the head in the area where the man attacked us eight hundred years ago.
If you doubt that our language has always been Persian, here’s proof! I’ve seen a tablet from Cyrus the Great himself, King of Kings, written in Persian. Back then, Cyrus spoke Persian and was a very forward-thinking man. He knew that one day Arabs would attack Iran, and they would mix words like "right" and "justice" into our language. That’s why he included the word "حقوق" (rights) in his inscription. Don’t think that rights didn’t exist back then, or that Cyrus only thought about the future. No! They had rights, but they called it something else back then, involving ears, holes, and ropes. Of course, because the Arabs hadn’t attacked yet, they called ropes “multi-layered thread.”
I don’t know why I went off on this tangent about the Arabs. But really, how did they become people? Back then, they ate lizards, while in Shiraz, we had French chefs. It’s all this man’s fault, the one who invaded Iran eight hundred years ago, and now I’m thinking of the Arabs’ attack. Throughout history, many people have invaded us. As the wise man once said, we’ve been attacked so many times that our attack capacity has fallen apart. Maybe it’s because our land of attack is so tempting to these savage people. Everyone who’s passed through these parts has attacked us in some way—Caesar of Rome, Alexander, Arabs, and the one who attacked us eight hundred years ago. Then, the Afghan brothers, our fellow speakers, took part of our land, and shortly afterward, the Russians came to pay us a visit.
I don’t want to digress here, but a conversation leads to another. Humans aren’t made of wood; they have feelings. Do you think I’m talking about that man and his eight-hundred-year-old invasion and forgetting the Arabs? The truth is, the Arabs have been the source of much of our pain. Before their invasion, we had an empire that was like a bouquet of flowers, ruled by kings, one of whom was famously just. But he wasn’t as famous as me. I have fame for my literature, for fighting against censorship, and for being a staunch protector of honor—this last one being a recent development. Let’s go back to those just kings. There were also some clerics, whom we called “mobeds.” Many others existed too, but they didn’t count for much. But when the Arabs came, those people became bold. In short, Iran became a mess. Don’t criticize me for using the language of that invading tribe. I intentionally used "mess" to remind myself to return to the story of that invasion and the man who attacked us eight hundred years ago.
Now let me tell you about that man. A person who is filled with fallacies once said that Persian should not be the official language. If an American had said this, and meant that Persian shouldn’t be official in America, it would have been bearable. The same goes for a French or a Chinese person. (But if a Canadian said this, we would not accept it. We have a very solid reason to make Persian official in Canada just to annoy this person, who is currently there.) In reality, I think Persian, the language of Hafez, Saadi, and me, should be the official language of the entire world. I myself have written several novels in this language. That’s why, at the very least, they should speak it at the United Nations. I once read somewhere that someone claimed Persian only has three hundred verbs, and is very weak, and so on. First of all, this is not true; our beautiful language has more than three hundred verbs. Secondly, let’s say it’s true—so what? Anyone who believes such nonsense must have a defective brain. I once said that this very fact proves why Persian should be international—it would make a lot of complicated issues much simpler. It could even be used in politics, physics, space exploration, and all sciences. Things would become easier. Everyone would quickly learn it. No more messing around with Oxford, it would go its way.
Let’s put aside the richness of Persian literature for now and return to the words of that man who said Persian shouldn’t even be the official language in Iran. This is going too far. It really takes nerve for someone who attacked us eight hundred years ago and wrote seventy books in Persian to make such big claims. Now, I’m not concerned with how these people are still alive after eight hundred years. They’re good for nothing, those people and their long-lived stories. Surely Noah was one of them, if they claim to live for a thousand years. God forbid this man lives a thousand years too. But this story of his attack on Iran is a very important matter. I tried to remind him, but I think he forgot. Eight hundred years is no joke; he must have forgotten. After all, a sensible person wouldn’t live for eight hundred years if they don’t have a good memory. He didn’t think, when he attacked us, that eight hundred years later I would grab him by the collar? I may not have the physical strength to confront him, but I can certainly issue a fatwa. Others can take care of him. Kicks haven’t yet been classified as "weapons of mass destruction," so no one will face serious trouble. (Don’t get on my case about using the word "kick." In casual speech, we say "legd," which sounds cooler. "Kick" isn’t as cool. I gave some leniency and didn’t say "laghd," by the way.)
Let’s get back to the main point. I told him something else too. I said, "You, the tree of thorns! You, who wrote seventy books, all in Persian—why didn’t you write one book in Azeri?" (I must give credit to a wise man, Nader Pour, who coined the phrase "tree of thorns" in this context.) I told him, "Don’t make excuses saying that your school’s wall newspaper was in your own language, so you had to write in it. These romantic stories won’t affect me." Persian is no joke, and it’s not something to be pushed aside with silly excuses and a ‘woe is me’ attitude. As the wise leader once said, “We break poisoned pens.” And I say it too, that those who speak ill of Persian deserve a good kick in the mouth. We cut down the thorn trees, even if they’ve written seventy books in our language. (I added a thousand for dramatic effect to show the vastness of Persian. But honestly, sometimes I wonder how he wrote seventy books with just three hundred verbs—he must have really messed things up.)
I said to him, "I know why you wrote all your books in Persian. It’s because Persian, with its allure, drew you in. Don’t try to say that Azeri doesn’t exist. Your compatriot discovered it seventy or eighty years ago, and he found a couple of people speaking it in not one, but two villages."
I also told him, which I shouldn’t be saying here, but I’m a free spirit and not shy about censorship: "I know deep down you think your language is Turkish, and that Turkish literature is so great, with Nobel prizes and all that nonsense. I told him to stick to Azeri, for your own good. If you had dared to write even a word in Turkish, you would know that if we hadn’t beaten you up at the Writers’ Association, you wouldn’t have been called an Iranian writer."
Some ignorant people may come and call me a fascist or racist, but that’s not the case. I’ve said before, “I want censorship to be broken. I want freedom of speech to be institutionalized in my country. I want a space for dialogue.” No one can deny this. It’s still on the websites. But Persian is a different matter. Persian is like a person’s honor—it’s not something to joke about. Honor is something sacred, like the time before the Big Bang—when the laws of physics didn’t apply. When it comes to honor, there’s no room for freedom of speech or breaking the walls of censorship. Feminists may not understand this, but no, I’m not talking about women’s honor here. I’m talking about the honor of our language. Anyone who speaks ill of the Persian language, the honor of Iran, deserves a good kick. Honor isn’t something to be taken lightly.
Some ignorant person might say, "Hey, we are all Iranians, and we should stand by each other and not kick anyone." That’s nonsense. Yes, I used to complain that we were raised to hurt ourselves and each other, but what I meant was that instead of self-harm, we should harm those who deserve it. I’ve said before that in some villages of Iran, there are mosquitoes that don’t bite the locals, so they’re called "strangers' mosquitoes." In our culture, it’s acceptable to bite a foreigner. And that man who invaded us eight hundred years ago is not one of us. Even if he wrote seventy books, he is still an enemy because he disrespected our honor. No, these dishonorable actions won’t be accepted by us. So, we are here with our kicks, ready for him.
Original Text in Farsi
(1) This article satirically plays on Abbas Maroufi's last name, "Maroufi," meaning "famous" in both Arabic and Farsi.